But the Princess’s searching gaze moved restlessly across the view for hours yet, before the night was done.
Chapter Sixteen
“My God, man, what’s happened to your face?”
Friedrich woke to find Anton Esterházy bending over his bed and peering down at him.
“Wha—ow!” Friedrich cupped his hands to his stinging cheeks.
“Look at yourself!” Anton scooped up Friedrich’s small shaving mirror and tilted it toward him.
Friedrich blinked into it. His cheeks, chin, and forehead were bright scarlet. Every prickle of morning’s beard burned against his sore skin. And yet—
He touched his face wonderingly. It had healed. That godawful smelly cream had worked. No yellow blisters, no oozing pustules—
“Amazing,” he breathed.
“What the devil did you do to yourself last night?”
“Ah . . .” Friedrich pulled himself up into a sitting position and rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s a long story.”
“Ha.” Anton set down the mirror and flung himself down onto the chair next to Friedrich’s bed. “I’ve told your valet to bring us both food, so you have all the time you need. Start talking.”
“Well . . .”
“You’ve turned into a bloody mystery, you know that? Where were you last night, anyway? A whole group of us went looking for you.”
“Here and there?” Friedrich offered. He glanced past Anton, searching for escape. “What time is it, anyway?”
“Ten.”
“Oh, God, I’ve overslept!” Friedrich leapt up and searched for clothing. “You’ll have to eat by yourself, Esterházy. I’ll see you—”
“Overslept? At ten o’clock?” Anton stared at him. “What appointments could you have?”
Halfway into his uniform, Friedrich tried to look suave. “I’ve been attending the opera rehearsals.”
“You listen to opera now?”
“I’m learning.”
“I’ll wager you are.” Anton stood up and crossed his arms.
Friedrich eyed him warily. “I really do have to go. Sorry about the trouble, but—”
“Nothing to be sorry about, my friend.” Anton smiled beatifically. “I’m coming with you.”
Half an hour later, Friedrich slumped down into a seat at the back of the opera house, while Anton looked around with bright curiosity. Twenty minutes of desperate persuasion had only made him more devilishly determined.
“Don’t you have any real duties to attend to?” Friedrich muttered now.
Anton gave a muffled shout of laughter. “Is that Friedrich von Höllner speaking? Herr Honorary-Lieutenancy-sleep-till-noon—”
“Not lately.” Friedrich snorted. “I’ve been waking up early all week.” Damn it.
“Have you?” Anton raised his eyebrows. “Now that is interesting. I can hardly wait for you to explain it to me.”
Friedrich sank lower in his seat. Onstage, the kapellmeister was having a long debate with one of the singers, an old man. The old man stomped off, making a rude gesture at one of the younger men. The dark-haired older lady smirked, and the kapellmeister shook his head.
“Next piece,” he called out. “Dommayer! Pichler!”
Anton leaned forward in his seat, enlightenment dawning on his features. “Now I see why you’ve been going to rehearsals!”
“Sorry?” Friedrich blinked and sat up.
“She’s adorable,” Anton breathed. “That hair—that figure!”
“Eh?” Friedrich scanned the stage. At least four women stood at various points.
The director sat down at the harpsichord and began to play, and the blonde girl stepped forward. She opened her mouth and began to sing; the dark-haired man behind her joined in a moment later.
“I’ve heard this one before.” Friedrich sat back, sighing. “Don’t worry about trying to pay attention, anyway. All the songs sound the same.”
“She’s an angel. And that voice—!” Anton turned and fixed Friedrich with a glittering gaze. “You have to introduce me.”
“To her? I don’t know her.”
“You don’t—?!”
“I know that dark-haired lady.” Friedrich pointed. “Madame Zel-something-or-other. Very charming. If we order any refreshments, you’ll get to know her, too.”
“Von Höllner, you’re a Philistine.”
The music broke off, and the director shook his head. He made the blonde sing again on her own, again and then again—the words sounded slightly different each time, but it had been too long since Friedrich had studied or spoken Italian for him to understand many of them.
“What’s he doing?” Anton stared at the stage. “Look, she’s flushed!”
“I think he’s making her fix the pronunciation. He does that a lot with her. Ungodly boring.” Friedrich sighed. “Speaking of which, Esterházy, what would you say to some refreshments? I could—”
“He’s a monster. Who cares how she pronounces the words?”
“We could—”
“I couldn’t eat. Not until I’ve met her.” Anton turned back to grin fiercely. “Come on, man! I know you’ve got your secrets. For the moment, I won’t press you on them—but you’re the one who comes here every day. You have to help me meet her.”
“Well . . .” Friedrich sighed and thought wistfully of pastries and wine. “All right. But then we’ll order refreshments.”
Anna’s legs nearly gave out underneath her as she stepped away from the harpsichord. When would it grow any easier? She’d spent the last day and a half memorizing and practicing every single incomprehensible syllable for the opera they would perform tonight. How could they still all be wrong?
“Fräulein Dommayer.” Herr Pichler took her arm, smiling charmingly. “Your Italian improves by the day.”
“It does not.” She pulled her arm back and glared at him. His face fell, and she relented. “I’m sorry, but I cannot believe you. It—” She lowered her voice, conscious of the other singers’ eyes on them. “It is a nightmare.”
“Nonsense.” He retrieved her arm and steered her off the stage to a corner at the front of the audience. “Everyone but you can hear the improvement. If you desired it . . .” He leaned closer, and his warm breath brushed against her cheek. “I could assist you with private lessons.”
Anna swallowed. Her heartbeat was fluttering uncomfortably—he was terribly handsome, even though he did know it—but his words still made no sense. “As I recall, sir, our last tutorial was a disaster.”
He shrugged. “I was overset by grief. I can only apologize for my bad manners.” He rested his palm on the wall by her cheek, closing her into the corner, and fixed his warm gaze on her. “Won’t you let me make up for them now?”
“Why, Herr Pichler,” Madame Zelinowsky purred behind him, “you grow quite heated. Whatever can you be speaking of?” He jerked back, and her smile deepened. “I’m afraid you must surrender our little Anna for the moment, as these two gentlemen are most desirous of making her acquaintance.” She took his arm and drew him firmly to one side. “Anna, my dear, this is Lieutenant von Höllner, a delightful new friend of mine.”
Freed, Anna stepped out of the corner and dropped a curtsey, holding her head up high as the great ladies did. Of course, Lieutenant von Höllner was Frau von Höllner’s husband, the blond officer who always slept in the back row of the audience. Today his face was reddened from some injury, and he barely looked at her as he made his bow. His friend, on the other hand—
“May I introduce Lieutenant Anton Esterházy?” Lieutenant von Höllner stepped aside. “He is—”
“—Enchanted.” Lieutenant Esterházy grinned and took Anna’s hand in a strong, warm grip. His hair was smoothly powdered, but energy seemed to burn from his tanned skin. His lips brushed softly against the back of her hand while his blue eyes devoured her face.
Anna fought down a shiver. She’d never had her hand kissed in her life. Was this some sort of joke?
No, she told herself. She was a professional singer now, and an actress. She must learn to take this as her due.
“I’m pleased to meet you, lieutenant.”
He released her hand slowly, as if he were reluctant to let it go. “I had to pay my compliments, Fräulein. Your voice is heavenly—angelic! I was overwhelmed.”
Herr Pichler let out a muffled snort. Lieutenant Esterházy shifted position so that his broad shoulders were between Anna and the actor. He smiled down at her dazzlingly from a foot’s advantage in height. “How long have you been a singer, Fräulein?”
“Ah . . . five days?”
He let out a shout of laughter. “No, really.”
“Oh, but she is telling the truth, lieutenant,” Madame Zelinowsky purred. “It’s a charming story. Our little Anna was a noblewoman’s maid until her discovery, only a few days ago.”
“Amazing.” Lieutenant Esterházy shook his head. “Such a jewel, to be hidden until now.” Lifting her hand once more, he pressed it between his palms. “Fräulein Dommayer, may I ask—may I beg—the honor and the privilege of being allowed to speak with you after your performance tonight?”
“Well, I—I don’t see why not,” Anna faltered.
“Your servant, Fräulein.” He turned her hand over and pressed a lingering kiss on the inside of her wrist. Then he bowed deeply before walking away, his friend following behind.
Anna raised her tingling wrist to her chest. She rubbed it lightly with her other hand, trying to reorder her senses.
“My, my,” Madame Zelinowsky murmured. “You must be careful to wear your sweetest perfume tonight, my dear.”
“Why should I?” Anna lifted her chin. “It will only be a few moments’ conversation.”
“As you say.” The older woman glided away, chuckling.
Anna finally allowed herself to look at Herr Pichler. His arms were crossed. She could not read the expression on his face.
“I trust your plans are proceeding well, Fräulein?” he asked evenly.
“Plans?” She frowned. “I don’t—”
“Of course. You’re not allowed to share them with me.” He bowed stiffly, his face tightening with the movement of his back. “I can only apologize for so clumsily intruding upon them.”
“Herr Pichler—”
But he was already walking away from her.
Anna gritted her teeth and fought down the urge to throw something after him.
“Dommayer and Kettner!” the kapellmeister called.
Anna took a deep breath. Music and meaningless Italian words swirled through her head.
She walked onstage.
“Did you see how he was annoying her?” Anton glared across the audience. “What a cad.”
“Mm.” Friedrich leaned over the cart of pastries and drinks that the maidservant had brought. “Strudel or torte, Esterházy?”
“Have you ever seen such perfect beauty? Such innocence?” Anton shook his head. “I’m telling you, I felt her shiver when I kissed her hand! What kind of actress would do that?”
“One who used to be a maid?” Friedrich pointed at the tray. “I asked—”
His hand hovered over the top shelf of pastries, and stilled. Beneath the plate of strudel slices, a sliver of ivory paper stuck out.
Not again. He looked up at the maidservant’s face for the first time. She looked back blandly.
“Sir?”
“Never mind.” He yanked out the sliver of paper—and went limp with relief.
It was only a napkin. A fine, smooth, linen napkin that had looked like paper from the wrong angle. Friedrich laughed in sheer relief. There was a blur of noise in the background—Anton saying something he didn’t catch—but he couldn’t stop laughing once he’d started. It was too absurd. His face was burned, and he was watching godawful Italian opera, but he hadn’t been sent a missive from the Brotherhood after all. It was too wonderful for words. He finally hiccupped to a halt, with the napkin in his hands.
“Von Höllner?” Anton was looking at him oddly. “Are you all right?”
“Fine, fine.” Friedrich scooped up a slice of strudel for himself, grinning widely. He bit into the sweet, juicy apples and felt a ripple of sheer pleasure run through him.
“I just said, I need your help,” Anton repeated. “Keep an eye on that Pichler fellow while I’m at maneuvers. See if he tries to pester her again.”
“And?” Friedrich raised his eyebrows. “What do you want me to do about it? Shout for help?”
Anton narrowed his eyes. “Just tell me later, and I’ll deal with it. Meantime, I’m going to see what I can find out about him. I’ll ask my cousin if there have been any problems with him in the past.” He turned back toward the stage, one finger tapping impatiently on his leg. “Keep your eyes open, von Höllner. You can do that?”
“Why not?” Friedrich licked pastry off his fingers and shrugged. Keep his eyes open? Spy without understanding or agreement? Why not, indeed. It was become almost second nature by now.
Chapter Seventeen
Carlo closed his eyes against waves of nausea as his valet dressed him, to the accompaniment of a pounding headache.
What in the name of God had he been thinking, to match the Princess’s lackey drink for drink last night? Bad enough that they’d so clearly been on show in that rural tavern—Eszterháza’s two prize freaks, out on display. Worse yet that he’d been out-drunk by a man less than half his own size, all the while being none-too-subtly interrogated.
Carlo groaned, and his valet’s hands stilled on his neckcloth.
“Signor?”
“It’s nothing.” Carlo set his teeth together.
It was clear enough that he’d been thoroughly examined. But why? He still had no idea.
He did, however, have a morning appointment.
“Signor Morelli.”
For all the Princess Esterházy’s glaring absence from her husband’s court, her own rooms were those of a reigning monarch—and, Carlo noted, as far removed from the befrilled and befeathered style of her replacement as any mode of decorations could reasonably be. The barely ornamented, gold-and-white pattern of the room was a model of restrained elegance, and the sunlight through the windows made the bright gilding along the white walls and mantelpiece blaze with regal authority.
The Princess herself sat in a chair like a throne, with her lavender skirts spread around her and a tiny dog asleep on her lap. Three maids hovered in the far corner of the room, watching their mistress’s every move. Another woman, perhaps a lady-in-waiting, sat directly across from her in a smaller, high-backed chair that faced the Princess but revealed only the back of her powdered hair to Carlo. Still, Carlo found himself grateful for the unknown company as he stepped into the spacious, light-filled room and met the Princess Esterházy’s sharp, intelligent gaze. He was almost certainly not up to making courtly conversation on his own this morning.
The Princess nodded at him, her eyes cool and assessing. “I thank you for attending me, signor.”
“I was honored by the invitation, Your Highness.” Carlo bowed as minimally as courtesy would allow, for the sake of his throbbing head. From the twitch of her lips, he wondered if she knew his reason.
As he bowed, the occupant of the chair across from the Princess turned to look at him. Carlo’s jaw clenched. “Baroness von Steinbeck.”
“Signor.” Her eyes were wide with surprise.
Carlo straightened, cursing inwardly as waves of nausea rolled through him. How soon could he make his excuses?
“You look in need of sustenance, signor,” the Princess said. “My page thought that you might be.” She nodded at one of the hovering maids, then turned back to Carlo. Diamonds flashed on her fingers, catching the light as she pointed to the chair beside the Baroness. “Do sit down.”
“I thank you, Your Highness.”
As the maid hurried away—in search of some dainty, ladylike confection, no doubt—Carlo sank down onto the appointed chair, keeping a pleasant
smile fixed to his face. His foot brushed against the edge of the Baroness’s black silk skirts. She twitched them away, and he jerked back. The Princess watched with palpable amusement.
The rest of the magnificent chamber was empty, apart from the two remaining maids who waited in the background, watching the Princess intently.
“I trust Monsieur Jean is well?” Carlo asked.
“Oh, yes. His system is remarkably resilient, I find. He and Asa are out riding now, while the Baroness keeps me company.”
“Ah.” Carlo slid a discreet glance at the Baroness, whose face was composed, giving nothing away. How long had she been on visiting terms with the wife of her sister’s lover?
“And here is your sustenance.” The Princess smiled faintly as the first maid returned, bearing a tray with dry crackers and a tall glass of fizzing liquid. At Carlo’s involuntary start, she let out a dry laugh. “Never fear, signor. This remedy is a specialty of Monsieur Jean’s. I think you’ll find it quite appropriate.”
Carlo took a wary sip. It burned, nearly choking him—but in the next moment, his head cleared. He blinked and drained the glass. When the burning sensation subsided in his throat, the nausea vanished with it. He straightened his shoulders and took a deep breath.
Both women were watching him—the Princess with amused interest and the Baroness with a mixture of confusion and—was it distaste? Probably. She had dismissed his theory about the singers’ death as a wild and ungentlemanly fantasy . . . a verdict that must label him, in her eyes, as either a mischief-maker or a coward. Was she now adding “drunkard” to her list?
He shrugged and lifted his empty glass in a salute to the Princess.
“My compliments to your page. An excellent remedy, Your Highness.”
“I am glad. Particularly as it allows me now to ask you both for a favor.” She stroked the short white fur of her sleeping lapdog as she watched them. “I was exceedingly distressed to have missed your joint recital, a few nights ago. As you are both here now, won’t you indulge me with one song?” Her gaze rested on Carlo. “It would be a pity indeed to say that the greatest musico in Europe had spent the entire summer at Eszterháza and I had never heard him sing.”
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